


The Instruments of Their Master

by iberiandoctor (Jehane)



Category: 19th Century CE France RPF, La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac
Genre: Blowjobs, Crossover, Hate Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Pedagogy, Politics, Propaganda, Unequal relationships, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:54:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: The Duke of Otranto had two protégés: one, a police spy; the other, a promising future Deputy. The lessons these men learned under his tutelage — none more during the Hundred Days, when the Republic hung on a knife’s edge of war and politics — left the one greater, the other more guilty.
Relationships: Corentin/Jacques-Antoine Manuel, Joseph Fouché/Corentin, Joseph Fouché/Jacques-Antoine Manuel, referenced Corentin/Hulot (Comédie Humaine)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Instruments of Their Master

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kainosite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kainosite/gifts).



> From [Manuel et son Temps, by M. Ed. Bonnal](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6457089g/f1n530.texteBrut), (1877): — _Oratorian by principle, Conventional by occasion, Terrorist by ambition, proscribed, ambassador of his former adversaries, minister to the 18th Brumaire, Monarchien under the Consulate, devoted to the Empire, disgraced for intrigues, keen on business, servile and at the same time domineering, traitor by circumstances, perceptive, resolute, enterprising and obscure, the Duke of Otranto … would have tainted even the purest men of the Revolution, the Empire and the Restoration if their personal integrity and the disinterestedness of their convictions had not preserved them from his attacks. Manuel more than any other politician escaped Fouché's lusts. His righteousness, his youth, his character, the purity of his principles, his enthusiasm for his cause, perhaps made the attacks of the Duke of Otranto on his soul more vile; but they left the one greater, the other more guilty._
> 
> From [ An Historical Mystery - Honoré de Balzac](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=S2NEAAAAIAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q=corentin&f=false), (1841): — _Corentin was unreservedly attached to Fouché, just as M de la Besnardiere was to Talleyrand … Duroc to Napoleon, Chavigny to Cardinal Richelieu. Corentin was not the counsellor of his master, but his instrument… It was said that Corentin belonged to Fouché by some unavowed relationship, for he rewarded him lavishly after every service._

There were already buds on the horse-chestnut trees along the rue de Richelieu, heralding the arrival of an early spring. Hidden by the curtains of the nondescript post-carriage that had conveyed him to Paris from the Vendée, Corentin took a moment to appreciate the sight of beauty that might be gone soon enough. 

Once again, the police spy found himself the herald of calamitous intelligence, riding to outpace the storm-front gathering at his heels. By his calculations, he had three or four days’ head start, which would undoubtedly be ample time for Fouché. In this unsettled period after the Emperor’s triumphant return from exile, in a departure of kings and a return to imperialist tyranny, with wars amassing on every horizon, the spymaster — restored mere weeks ago to his old position as Minister of Police — had sent his agents into the wind, to take in the climate of a France torn between the retreating Bourbons and Bonaparte’s sudden restoration; certainly he would have in place several urgent strategies with which to ride out the whirlwind. 

Corentin had the carriage stop in the rue Taitbout, from which he slipped into the tree-lined garden of Napoleon's step-daughter, Queen Hortense née Beauharnais. There, shaded from the late afternoon sunlight, he followed the hidden path to the outer border of Hortense's garden, scaled the brick wall as Fouché had not a month before him, and landed in the back garden of Fouché’s house in the rue Cerutti. 

Escaping the police agents of Louis XVIII on the eve of Napoleon’s return, Fouché had reportedly leaped out of a window from his private chambers, a remarkably athletic feat for a man of fifty-five. Although he was two decades younger, Corentin was not about to repeat this exploit. He was the only one, apart from Fouché himself, with the key to the Minister’s hidden rear door; he used it now to discreetly enter Fouché’s house.

He made his way silently across the discreetly-lit passageway, past the kitchens where the staff were preparing the Minister’s modest evening meal, and up the back stairs that led to Fouché’s private apartments.

The public areas of the Minister’s house were decorated with unobjectionable paintings of pastoral scenes. Where men like Maret and Talleyrand and other political figures might have displayed official portraits— luminaries of the Revolution, or their key allies of the day, and now of the Emperor himself — Fouché was too old a hand to expose his allegiances to scrutiny; as his detractors might have it, the Duke of Otranto's allegiances changed so frequently that a rogue’s gallery of enemies might be more apropos instead. 

The walls of the private rooms to which Corentin now ascended, however, were covered with framed charts and maps: Fouché’s childhood home of Le Pellerin; the cities of Saumur, Juilly and Arras, where he had pursued his former career as schoolmaster, and a large, hand-drawn depiction of the Vendôme, where he had first encountered an orphaned schoolboy, had seen promise, and inducted the child into his tutelage. Young Corentin had then vowed never to disappoint his patron; decades later, the grown man knew how short he had fallen of that boyhood commitment.

At the end of the private corridor was a door. Corentin approached this portal and knocked upon it: three long raps, followed by four short ones.

There was a lengthy pause, and the familiar voice called, “One moment.”

Corentin heard unfamiliar footfall crossing the room, and the sound of a bolt sliding back. Then, “Come,” and Corentin was admitted into the inner sanctum.

As usual, Fouché’s sparsely-furnished office was well-lit, the curtains thrown back to admit the thin light of the afternoon. Less usual was the newsprint piled on the bureaus and window-ledges and a new writing-table, adjacent to Fouché’s official desk, that had not been there during Corentin’s last visit.

Something else that had not been there: the tall, dark-haired gentleman who stood at the threshold of the room, poised either to welcome Corentin or to bar his entry. This interloper was in his shirtsleeves and vest, cravat loosened. His old-school bearing echoed that of a knight of the Middle Ages, in the time when France was still ruled by kings and the Church.

Though they had not met before, Corentin had no doubt as to who this man was.

Maître Jacques-Antoine Manuel: born in Barcelonnette two years before Corentin, an advocate of some renown, practising first in the department of Basses-Alpes, and then at the Court of Appeal of Aix-en-Provence. Before taking up the study of law, he had enlisted in the army under Napoleon and had been wounded at the famous battle of Pont d'Arcole. 

During his lengthy exile in Aix, Fouché had taken pains to acquaint himself with a wide circle of local civic and business leaders. Corentin understood that this lawyer — patriotic; intelligent; well-regarded in society; well put together, as now evidenced strikingly in Fouché’s doorway — had become one of the Duke of Otranto’s closest intimates. According to reports, Manuel had apparently even spent some time in Fouché’s residence in Aix, before Fouché’s uneasy return to the capital under Louis XVIII. 

He had not known, though, that Manuel had been installed in Fouché’s private office in Paris. 

“M. Corentin,” Manuel said, politely enough: clearly, Corentin was not the only one who had kept himself informed of the comings and goings in Fouché’s circles. 

“You are early,” the familiar voice remarked from behind the great desk. The Minister did not rise to greet his protégé, but the faint smile that crossed that narrow, ascetic face was all the welcome that was required. “I did not expect you here for some hours. As you see, you have come upon M. Manuel and myself hard at work.”

The Minister gestured at the array of newsprint. Corentin advanced into the room for a closer look, conscious that he was leaving Manuel to shut the door behind him.

“ _L’Indépendant_. M. le Ministre, you are taking up the profession of news reporting during your spare time?”

Fouché barked out a short laugh, and now he rose to his feet: a hawkish figure dressed in habitual schoolmaster’s black. “And why not, when _Le Moniteur_ has always printed lies about me and my administration? The Emperor has had the grand idea of putting an end to press censorship, which some quarters have interpreted as freedom to libel the present state of affairs as a military coup — that may only be legitimized by a public vote.”

The news of widespread arrests and seizures of the offending edition of _Le Moniteur_ had even reached Corentin during his sojourn in the Vendée. Clearly, though, the new Minister of Police had realised that these draconian measures were not proving efficacious in this post-Bourbon era, and that, in order to shore up the Emperor’s position, a different tactic was required.

This fledgling edition of _l’Indépendant_ bore the date of May 1, 1815. The pro-government screed that occupied its front pages had no authorial attribution, but a list of editors, partially obscured by other pages, could be discerned: Antoine Jay, former pupil and instructor of Fouché’s children; Count Jean-Denis Lanjuinais, a committed Liberal and anti-Bonapartist; and, of course, Manuel himself.

“I am certain this grand journalistic endeavour was entirely the Emperor’s idea,” Corentin said, demurely. “And M. Manuel, who fought so bravely for our great Empire in Italy in the last century — in the army of General Anselme, securing as many victories as battles from Montenotte to Arcole and across the Tagliamento to Turin, claiming the gallant Emperor as Italy’s general-in-chief — surely M. Manuel is as eager to do similar service for Bonaparte, and Bonapartists, by the eloquence of his writing as he did by the skill of his arms in the battlefield?”

Fouché’s faint smile widened a fraction at this salvo. Returning from the door, Manuel himself maintained an admirable sang-froid which Corentin would later learn characterised the man’s demeanour under fire.

“Monsieur, I was eager to secure the successes of the Republic; in Italy, I took up arms to avenge my country,” the lawyer said evenly. “It is true that I fought in the armies of Napoleon Bonaparte; I was eighteen, and then believed the Emperor would assure France and the world of freedom.” 

He seated himself at the edge of his writing-table and gestured expansively at the leaves of broadsheet heaped upon it. “Unfortunately, the general’s post-war exploits have shown us too clearly that power cannot be vested in one man, regardless of his ability in battle or his love for his country, but can only find its rightful source in the heart of a sovereign nation and the souls of its liberated citizens. Absent the mandate of the people, power turns even the best of men into tyrants; and, in the greatest tragedy of all, they begin to arrogate to themselves the divine right of kings — and it will end in blood if matters are not brought in hand, by those who may love them, but who love France even more.” 

Corentin found himself not unimpressed by this bold, frank speech. “And yet were not Messrs. Lecompte and Dunoyer prosecuted for saying the same in that banned edition of _Le Moniteur_?” he remarked, returning fire. “Would not this fate await others if _l’Indépendant_ were to take a similar tack?”

At this point, Fouché finally bestirred himself to enter the fray. “Come, you cannot expect M. Manuel to be so incautious as to print such views, even if he were to privately espouse them.” He, too, took a seat upon the edge of his own desk. “One must bide one’s time; one might seek to strike a balance, especially now all of France stands on a knife’s edge between war and security. This new venture of M. Manuel’s may yet serve to hold that balance.”

He paused before fixing Corentin with his peculiar, penetrating glance. “And now, regarding _your_ new venture. How fare matters in the Vendée?”

For a split-second Corentin’s gaze flickered to Manuel, standing nearby: an error on which Fouché could not fail to remark. The Minister drawled, “You can speak freely in front of M. Manuel.”

Corentin had not had cause to curse his fair complexion for many years now, but still he required a moment before he could respond with equanimity:

“M. le Ministre, you were not wrong when you surmised that matters in the Vendée are coming to a head. The departure of the troops per the 10 April imperial decree has left the field open for insurrection. The people are discontented and royalists are prepared to arm. Full scale revolt is imminent.”

Of course, this was only part of the story. The Chouan royalists were as susceptible to divisive tactics as ever, as well as to bribery: this included such Vendéan leaders as the brothers of M. de la Béraudière — one of Fouché's Consulate stalwarts — in whose company Corentin had just spent several instructive days.

Fouché nodded, as if he noted what Corentin had left unsaid. Out of the corner of his eye, Corentin could see the expression of concern that darted across Manuel’s handsome face; the spy took some small satisfaction at making a chip in that celebrated sang-froid.

The Minister commented: “The Emperor is preparing for war in the North; he can ill afford this trouble in the West. I confess I, also, have no wish to create additional martyrs for the Royalist cause, nor must the Chouans succeed in this bloody war before we can tell which way the wind is blowing.”

Corentin was silent. If the Emperor’s regime did not endure, the Coalition powers would not accept anything less than a restoration of Louis XVIII and his line. In fact, the canny Minister of Police would have already opened covert peace negotiations with England, and Austria, and Prussia, even as the Emperor’s troops readied themselves for war.

Manuel, also, was silent. His face was expressionless, his posture as deliberately relaxed as a cavalryman’s in the saddle. Here was a man who spoke about freedom, and France, in tones one reserved for a lover: though he might seek to shift the balance away from a power-hungry tyrant, surely such a high-minded liberal would never seek the return of kings instead? 

“Perhaps the Emperor might be persuaded to seek an armistice with the rebels,” Fouché was musing aloud. “If so, I would count on you, Corentin, to make the first foray. And, to see you are sufficiently reinforced behind enemy lines — how fares your friend Hulot these days? If I recall, his unit was ordered to the Army of the North some years ago; he led a company in the Emperor’s Grenadiers of the Guard. You both have expertise in dealing with the Chouans, and shared history in the Vendée.”

Corentin considered this. He had indeed first encountered Hulot on one of his, Corentin’s, first missions for Fouché; from the start, he’d found himself at loggerheads with that honest, direct soldier. That said, in their subsequent meetings over the years, Hulot had allowed himself to be persuaded that Corentin’s clever tongue could be employed much more gratifyingly than in deception. Admittedly, though, those initially pleasing encounters usually ended less well than they began, for one or both of them; there was no telling how receptive Hulot would be to another mission to the Vendée at Corentin’s side. Doubtless Fouché had been contemplating the same question when he made this sly suggestion.

Still: “I serve at M. le Ministre’s pleasure,” Corentin said, with a very correct bow.

Fouché’s lips thinned in appreciation. “I have always been able to count on you,” he remarked: as indeed he had, from the time that Corentin had been old enough to be deployed in such fashion, and every occasion since.

Again, the flicker of surprise in Manuel’s eyes, quickly masked. Did it shock Fouché’s new protégé that his old one was so quick to yield up his body at the behest of his master? Perhaps the Minister had not yet seen fit to ask the same of his pet lawyer, though Corentin, aware as he was of Fouché’s particular appetites — and of Manuel’s tall, vigorous presence in shirtsleeves, installed in the Minister’s private offices — would not have counted on it.

“In that event, I believe you and the Colonel will prevail in the West, but we would do well to prepare for the possibility of failure. Manuel, it seems the time has come to hasten legislative elections after all.” 

“I thought you _weren’t_ doing that,” Corentin pointed out, and Manuel smiled.

“We will not. Or, at least, we will not do so directly.” He waited for Fouché’s nod, a pause that would have made a younger Corentin clench his fists in outrage, before continuing, “ _L’Indépendant_ will first argue that such measures are unnecessary, and let the others take up the call in the name of decency and freedom. When the regime’s stoutest defender finally allows itself to be persuaded, the General will have no choice but to agree.”

Grudgingly, Corentin had to approve of this classic Fouché tactic. “And when the legislative elections are ushered in, what then?”

Though such an elected chamber would indeed restrain Bonaparte’s authority, this would not be enough to appease the Coalition, which would undoubtedly seek to put an end to both the Emperor as well as the ambitions of the Republic. 

In Corentin’s youth, he had once admired a young girl with royalist aspirations; he had confessed to her that if circumstances put him in correspondence with the princes, he would have been prepared to serve the Bourbons in Paris. He was wiser now: though he had never been a martyr to any cause, he would not so quickly welcome the return of kings, and the constraints on his activities as a citizen with it. What then was the alternative, a third path, between Bonaparte’s tyranny and the restoration of the Bourbons?

Fouché drawled: “You go too quickly, my boy. Rather, first, ask: how is an elected legislature to be secured, not for the Emperor, but for the Republic?” 

Manuel’s expression did not change, but the answer broke over Corentin as a bolt out of clear blue sky. 

“I see I am not the only one upon whom M. le Ministre can count,” he found himself saying, in a peevish echo of his younger self.

“Like you, I serve at the pleasure of M. le Ministre,” Manuel said, soberly. “These are precarious times. My poor words, and those of my colleagues, may yet serve to hold the balance; if not, there may be another capacity in which I might serve France.”

Fouché said, briskly, “It is a capacity for which you are most suited. I have seen you on your feet with the Conseil de l'Ordre in Aix: you are an advocate without peer. In your hands, and those of other candidates loyal to the Liberal cause, not that of our benevolent Emperor-general, rests the fate of the Republic.”

Manuel drew himself up gravely to his full height, squaring his broad shoulders. “It would be my privilege to defend the sovereign nation of France,” he said. “If M. le Ministre should desire that I serve my country in the new Chamber of Deputies, I stand ready to shoulder that duty.”

Fouché pursed his lips minutely, and took a slow pace forward to peer up into Manuel’s resolute face.

“Are you quite ready, though, to do what must be done? Your spirit is willing, but I sense your untested flesh may still harbour hidden weakness.”

“Never,” Manuel said, fiercely, and for a moment it was as if there were only the two of them in the room. “Sir, you have opened my eyes to the needs of the Republic, and fashioned ambitions for our country, and for me, which I would not have conceived of for myself. I am yours, you may depend upon it.” 

His voice rang with deep sincerity; it even reached Corentin through the dull simmer of loathing for the man. Fouché, however, did not look entirely convinced. 

“My boy, a deputy would be required to serve in a vastly different capacity than an editor of a broadsheet. Not only must he be eloquent, and able to move hearts and minds, he must do so _ex tempore_ — and he must not waver, or suffer distractions or temptations at the hands of his enemies.”

Manuel nodded, full of vigour and conviction. “You have prepared me for such matters, sir, and I have taken these lessons to heart. I am ready.”

Fouché gazed at him for a moment longer, and then said, briskly:

“Let us see if you are. This is your lesson for today: to discern a path that would to preserve the Republic, and fashion an argument that will convince your fellow deputies across the breadth of the Chamber, from the Bonapartists to the Liberals.”

The Minister then turned, deliberately, to Corentin.

“And let there be an added distraction — in the form of temptation at the hands of one who you ought not think of as your enemy.”

Corentin was fully aware of what Fouché was doing; understood precisely what was being asked of him. He set aside his first, furious reaction. His master had a lesson for Corentin as well as for Manuel, and Corentin was not required to approve of it, he was merely required to obey. 

He took a reluctant step forward, and then another, until he had placed himself between Fouché and Manuel, and stood directly in front of the future Deputy. 

Fouché remarked, “As you know, Corentin has performed sterling service to me since the Vendôme. He will also perform a service to you, if you would permit him.”

Manuel’s eyes had widened with surprise; perhaps there was an element of revulsion there, as well, that doubtless mirrored Corentin’s own. For a moment they continued to stare at each other warily: Corentin had to tilt his head up so that he could meet Manuel’s gaze. They were standing so close together that Corentin could feel the heat of the lawyer’s body, the life that quickened in his veins and beat under the thin fabric of his clothes. 

Corentin went slowly to his knees, and ran his palms along Manuel’s muscular thighs.

As Manuel went suddenly very still, Corentin unbuttoned the trouser flaps with his neat, clever fingers, and took Manuel’s soft prick in his hand. 

Manuel’s member was as attractive as the rest of him: generous and weighty, and already half-hard. This last might have been due to the man’s love of his country, or his conversation with their patron, or possibly even to his hatred of Corentin himself; certainly Hulot, another soldier, had demonstrated a similar reaction to an enemy who also proved himself a useful ally.

As Corentin began to rub Manuel’s prick with his fingers, the lawyer took a deep breath, and spoke in a voice that was entirely steady. 

“The path that would preserve the Republic lies at cross-purposes to what the Emperor desires for himself. That is to say: our general has achieved conquests in France’s name, and has promulgated great laws enshrining rights and liberties for all. He loathes kings, and has defended the common man against the Bourbons. But under his heel, France will never be a Republic.”

In Corentin’s grasp, Manuel’s length began to fill with blood, flushing a most pleasing ruddy hue. Despite this, the lawyer continued, in even tones, “But what will happen to France should the Coalition defeat the Emperor? They would desire that Bourbons be re-instated. With Napoleon’s armies decimated, they would have the military might to insist.”

Corentin began to pump the reddening girth in slow, full-palmed strokes, as Manuel mused, almost to himself, “Napoleon will never admit defeat until it is too late.”

Manuel paused to consider his next remarks, and Corentin took the opportunity to take Manuel’s erection into his mouth. The lawyer’s prick was heavy on Corentin’s tongue; its taste was pungent, but not unpleasant, reminding Corentin once again of the other soldier he had, under orders, invited to his bed. 

Despite himself, Corentin felt himself hardening under his own clothes — a condition which his Vendéan disguise would hide more ably than his usual Parisian breeches, but not nearly enough to escape the practised eye of the other man in the room, who had even now returned to his desk and his paperwork.

Cursing inwardly, Corentin returned to the task at hand, running his tongue up and down Manuel’s flushed cock. A little colourless liquid was leaking from its slit, and Corentin lapped it away.

Despite these skilful efforts, Manuel seemed unmoved. Though Corentin could taste the lawyer’s arousal, and feel the rapid beating of Manuel’s pulse within his mouth, Manuel observed, as soberly as if addressing the Court of Appeal in Aix: “Certainly, we must not let these matters go unanswered. There must be a plan for our Chamber to rally around, a plan that at the same time the General may be persuaded to accept, and early enough for the necessary negotiations to take place…” He paused, and then said, with emphasis, “There is only one person in whom we might find such a balance.”

Once again, the bolt from the blue: Corentin had to inhale sharply around Manuel’s prick. So _this_ was what Manuel and Fouché had been planning — the third way, which Corentin had been too engaged in fighting ostensibly in Bonaparte’s corner, and covertly against it, to have discerned earlier. 

Manuel inhaled sharply as well: at last, a reaction from the tenacious orator fashioned from marble! Corentin redoubled his efforts, and Manuel continued, now addressing their patron over Corentin’s head, in tones that were slightly more strained than before: 

“As we know, sir, the Emperor wishes to rule, but may be persuaded to abdicate in favour of his son, the young King of Rome. The Allies wish the Bourbons, but they might accept the child. How best might we argue for the boy?” 

Corentin, too, wondered this; he pulled off for a moment, and glanced sideways at Fouché. Their patron raised his head from his paperwork and made as if to take in the scene before his desk. His expression remained impassive, but Corentin felt a surge of satisfaction nonetheless. They undoubtedly made an attractive tableau — the Minister’s two protégés, at the height of their own powers: young and vital, one darkly handsome, the other deceptively golden, loathing each other and yet locked together in this most intimate act of service.

“Show me one way to argue it,” Fouché said, at last, and as Corentin closed his lips around Manuel once more, that future Deputy began to speak again, in resonant tones, as if to a grand chamber beyond this quiet room, a grand assembly filled with electors of every stripe.

“Friends, it has been said that in the name of France, fathers and sons will fight for independence to the very last drop of their blood. But within this great nation — agitated by so many different movements, prey to so many opposing interests, given over to so many different hopes — is there only one opinion, one outcome, which all parties can hope for? If so, the nation would rise up to fight as one. If no one dreamed of the return of the Bourbons, or if all interests and feelings were sacrificed to the country, then our path would be clear.”

Corentin’s mouth was full, otherwise he would have snorted in disbelief; yet, he could not count himself unmoved by this ringing oratory. In lieu of the sarcastic remark he would have made had he not been so occupied, he applied himself with rigour to that occupation, and was gratified at the tremor he caused in the flow of Manuel’s rhetoric. 

Recovering himself, Manuel declaimed fiercely: 

“But what of our Emperor, and the blood he shed? Are there any openings for negotiations that would be favourable to the young Napoleon II? Since we may be determined not to recognize the interests of one man above those of Patria, would not such a sacrifice be the result of the salvation of the State? No one desires the return of the Bourbons, and none less than I — but if the Emperor does not prevail, we may have no choice.” 

He swallowed; for some reason, the great orator’s throat was dry. Corentin glanced upwards as Manuel had to loosen his cravat, as if it was choking him, and ran a shaking hand through his coif of dark hair. Thickly: “Once we were a proud and sovereign nation. But we may have discovered that freedom is no longer sufficient for France. She wants peace at all costs, and, in order to obtain it, she is willing to surrender up every lofty principle that ever she had.” 

Grinning to himself, Corentin wondered how many principles Manuel himself was willing to surrender up, as Manuel’s body began to betray itself at last: he had to brace himself, clenching his fists, and his thighs slid further apart almost of their own volition, giving Corentin more access. 

Corentin was not one to let an opportunity slip by. Mercilessly, he palmed Manuel’s swollen scrotum and took the man’s prick deep into his mouth; Manuel made a strangled sound as he had to catch himself on Corentin’s shoulders.

Fighting for composure, he said, between his teeth: 

“My friends, there appears no other solution. A regency in favour of the young Napoleon II will never be countenanced by such a base and deceptive foe as the Coalition. These foreigners will come to dethrone the Emperor in the very heart of his capital; they will recognize neither strength nor virtue in that which bears his name. How would they acknowledge the constitutions of the outlaw, his son, his heredity, and his race? Nothing will compel these foes, short of the end of Napoleon and all his dreams — those loyal to the Emperor cannot proclaim Napoleon II, and take an oath to him, if they wish to preserve peace at all costs.” 

In a far less peaceful effort, Corentin swallowed Manuel to the root, and the lawyer had to stop for a moment, yielding to pleasure despite himself. For long moments, his head lolled back, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat; his red lips parted with fast, helpless breath; he had started quivering in every limb. His hands opened and closed over Corentin’s shoulders as if desperate to wreak violence over Corentin’s person.

Corentin’s jaw had started to ache, but he wouldn’t stop, not when he could taste how very close he was to victory. 

Clinging to the last of his self-restraint, Manuel finally ground out, “Of course, it may be a different story, if our foes could be compelled to understand — that this is the will of _all_ the people of France? —The will of those who would acclaim Napoleon, those committed Royalists, all of us — all of us who would see the salvation of the Nation!”

Manuel was panting openly as he said it, his eyelids sliding shut; he was losing control at last. He gasped, “Let us — let us rally the whole of France. Let us rally the friends of Patria to a fixed and determined opinion. Let us be united in proposing the one course that saves the Republic. Let us — propose — the Republic itself!”

 _The Republic!_ With those words, Manuel arrived at his extremity, his eloquence dissolving into groans as he spent himself down Corentin’s throat. His hand slid into Corentin’s hair, but he had sufficient gallantry left not to make a fist, and Corentin felt an unwilling flutter of appreciation even as his mouth was flooded with the bitter gush of conquest. 

Breathing hard through his nose, Manuel made an attempt to withdraw, but Corentin held him fast. Here was the lesson Fouché had meant for his police spy, and Corentin was determined to swallow down every last dreg of it.

Finally, Manuel finished; unsteady, he put out his hand for support, and Corentin surprised himself by taking it. Manuel leaned gratefully against him for a moment; his eyes closed, his clothes and hair in wild disorder, utterly undone and completely at Corentin’s mercy.

Corentin did not let himself wonder whether he looked equally undone, whether the enslavement was mutual. What he did discover was that he had himself climaxed when Manuel had found his pleasure, and that his release was trickling down the trousers of his Vendéan disguise.

The Minister made an amused sound. Fouché had finally risen from his desk and now approached them, wearing a smile of satisfaction.

“Bravo. You may have discovered how, in pretending to argue against Napoleon II, you can persuade the Chamber to argue for him instead. Perhaps something will emerge from of this more in keeping with the needs of the century, and of the Republic.”

“I will own that it was not an easy discovery, sir.” Manuel returned his smile with some effort. “Remind me never to underestimate any lesson of yours!” 

“It was not just a lesson for you,” Fouché said, with deceptive mildness. “But my first protégé has shown that he can serve you as well as he serves me. Well might you both consider any further service that you might perform for each other, or together, in the name of France.”

Manuel nodded seriously, and helped Corentin to his feet. Corentin found himself woefully shaky after so long on his knees; it was his turn to lean on Manuel as the future Deputy attempted in vain to put his clothes to rights.

“I ought to return home to repair my attire. I am expected at friend Lafitte’s for dinner. I can hardly persuade him to champion Napoleon II looking as if someone has put me through my paces in quite this way!”

Manuel’s gentle humour had a certain undeniable charm. Thus distracted, Corentin almost missed the expression that flashed over the Minister’s face at the mention of the young King of Rome.

As Manuel made his farewells and left, Fouché laid his hand on Corentin’s arm in a rare gesture of affection.

“Mark my words, my boy: that man may be Prime Minister one day.”

Fouché was gazing at the closed door in Manuel’s wake with unmistakable fondness in his eyes. It sent a sharp, unexpected knife-thrust through Corentin’s heart, which jolted his mind belatedly into action. 

Fouché might desire the regency of Napoleon II, but he would not stint to betray the child, and Manuel with him, should the return of the Bourbons prove ultimately more beneficial for Fouché and for the Republic.

He realised, too, that while Fouché, that ultimate survivor, would do his utmost to outlast all political rivals, the present Minister of Police would be all too aware that, as a regicide and architect of the Terror, his days under any reinstated Bourbon Empire would be numbered. 

This was the real lesson Fouché wished Corentin to learn: to watch over Manuel, even to serve him in the new Republic, were Fouché to meet that untimely but not wholly unexpected end.

Corentin returned from his thoughts to find Fouché was looking meaningfully at him; he felt himself flushing scarlet. 

“I can see that he’ll serve willingly in that capacity,” he made himself respond. “And, before you ask, I’ll serve, also: as your man and his.”

That is, if Manuel could forgive Fouché for what their patron would not scruple to do: to welcome yet another time of kings, to suspend the Republic in order to save it. Corentin did not say this, however; undoubtedly Fouché could read it in his eyes. 

Fouché’s triumphant smile was difficult to behold. Corentin steeled himself to it, anyway.

“You have always been a man on which I can count. Into your hands I entrust France, and its future leader.”

Corentin found himself temporarily at a loss for words. His heart tasted even more bitter than Manuel’s bitter seed had, and this, too, he drank down to its last dregs. 

After all, he meant to survive these uncertain days, whatever the final cost to Manuel’s beloved Republic, or the cost to himself — even if Fouché did not.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my thanks to my dear Miss M. <3
> 
> This story is about Fouché's two protégés — one RL (Manuel) and one fictional (Corentin) — and it's set in the Hundred Days period of French history, during which Napoleon returned from exile and deposed the Bourbons via military coup in March 1815, and was later defeated at Waterloo, by the same foreign Coalition powers which had, in 1814, facilitated the first restoration of Bourbons after Napoleon's original defeat, and which restored Louis XVIII a second time in July 1815. 
> 
> IRL, Fouché, Napoleon's spymaster/Minister of Police, was playing a secret double game to undercut the Emperor's tyranny; he canonically used brilliant young lawyer Manuel to rouse public sentiment against Napoleon's imperialism, first via propaganda broadsheet _L’Indépendant_ , and then as a deputy in the newly created legislative Chamber of Deputies. In Balzac's _La Comedie Humaine_ , fictitious Fouché had deployed Corentin, his tiny evil cop protégé, to undermine Royalist plots in the Vendée; here, Corentin is sent to do the same re: the RL Royalist anti-Napoleon sentiment that arose in the Vendée during the Hundred Days. In this story, Fouché tries to get his two protégés to work together to restore democracy to France — even if it means a (temporary) return to monarchy.
> 
> Details of Manuel’s life, from his enlistment in the army in 1793 to the Hundred Days, are from [Manuel et son Temps](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6457089g/f1n530.texteBrut); his impromptu speechifying under duress in this story echoes lines from his actual speeches in the Chamber of Deputies, especially the famous Session of June 22 speech pertaining to Napoleon’s abdication post-Waterloo — where Manuel eventually finds his way to argue explicitly for Napoleon II after all, while carrying out Fouché’s final end-game that _“it was absolutely necessary, at any price, to prevent the child’s rights from being recognised”_ : [Mémoires du Chancelier Pasquier](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k36756k.texteImage), (1894), at III, 256-57.
> 
>  _Manuel et son Temps_ glosses over Manuel’s period as editor of _l'Indépendant_ , as well as details of Manuel’s relations with Fouché, when he was living in Fouché’s house and writing his political speeches. These are taken from Ray Ellsworth Cubberly's [The Role of Fouché during the Hundred Days](https://books.google.com.sg/books/about/The_Role_of_Fouch%C3%A9_During_the_Hundred_D.html?id=LpwfAAAAMAAJ&redir_esc=y), (1970).
> 
> For instance, [his wiki](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jacques-Antoine_Manuel#cite_note-1) and his [entry in the Dictionnaire des parlementaires français, Edgar Bourloton](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k83707p/f644.image.r=Manuel)) says Manuel satisfied the criteria for censal suffrage thanks to the banker Jacques Laffitte, who effected the simulated sale that brought Manuel the required 1000 francs of direct contribution. However, according to Cubberly, actually the funding came from Fouché’s secret stash of 80,000 francs which Napoleon had given him for the secret expenses of the Ministry of Police (Cubberly, 49, 51). 
> 
> Fouché is quoted by Pasquier as saying the following: _"Fortunately, I have among [the deputies] a man of first rate talent on whom I can count. This man is Manuel. No one can sway an Assembly like him."_
> 
> Details of the rebellion in the Vendée (including the actions of "secret agents" who acted as Chouan double-agents) are taken from Cubberly, 29-39 and Daudet, _La Police et les Chouans_ , 346; the anecdote about Fouché’s escaping arrest on 16 March 1815 via Queen Hortense’s garden can be found in Cubberly 14, 15, and a slightly different version in Fouché’s [ MÉMOIRES](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/18942/18942-h/18942-h.htm) (1824), at 221.
> 
> Hulot’s (fictional) exploits, including his relations with Corentin are as detailed in Balzac’s [Les Chouans](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Les_Chouans), (1829), and [La Cousine Bette](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_Cousine_Bette>), (1846). 
> 
> The collected issues of _L’Indépendant_ are [here](https://www.retronews.fr/journal/journal-des-debats-politiques-et-litteraires/22-juin-1815/134/65236/4?from=%2Fsearch%23allTerms%3Dmanuel%26sort%3Ddate-asc%26publishedStart%3D1815-05-01%26publishedEnd%3D1815-08-30%26publishedBounds%3Dfrom%26indexedBounds%3Dfrom%26tfPublications%255B0%255D%3DJournal%2520des%2520d%25C3%25A9bats%2520politiques%2520et%2520litt%25C3%25A9raires%26page%3D1%26searchIn%3Dall%26total%3D16&index=0); Manuel’s parliamentary record and speeches [here](https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/bpt6k6457089g/f47.item).


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